Chapter 13
The loose rung he'd been warned about chose that moment to give way entirely. Alaric's foot went through the space where wood should have been, his balance shifted, and suddenly he was falling backward with the peculiar clarity that comes with imminent disaster.
Marianne reacted with impressive speed, dropping the ladder and positioning herself to catch him—or at least break his fall. He had just enough time to think "this is becoming a pattern" before he collided with her for the third time in four days.
This time, however, she was prepared. She caught him, her arms going around his waist as his weight drove them both back against the church wall. They ended up pressed together, his back to her front, her arms still around him, both breathing hard from the shock and sudden exertion.
"I've got you," she said, her breath warm against his neck.
"So you do," he managed, very aware of everywhere they were touching.
"You can stand on your own now."
"Can I? I'm not entirely certain. That was quite traumatic. I might need continued support."
"Mr. Fletcher..."
Alaric looked over to where Mrs. Martin was indeed watching them with the expression of someone who'd just received an early Christmas present.
We should probably separate."
"We should."
Neither of them moved.
"Marianne..."
"Don't," she said softly. "Whatever you're about to say, just... don't. Not here. Not now."
She released him and stepped back, and he immediately missed the warmth of her. They stood there for a moment, carefully not looking at each other while Mrs. Martin pretended to be absorbed in ribbon arrangement and the vicar studied a hymnal with suspicious intensity.
"Well!" the vicar said with forced brightness. "That was exciting! Perhaps we should take a break? Some tea?"
"Tea," Marianne agreed quickly. "Yes. Tea would be good. Normal. Appropriate."
"I like appropriate," Alaric said.
"Since when?" Marianne muttered, but she was already moving toward the vestry where the vicar kept his tea things.
The vicar's vestry was a small, cluttered space filled with books, papers, and the accumulated debris of thirty years of ministry. As the vicar bustled about making tea, he kept glancing at Alaric with an expression of growing recognition.
"You know," he said finally, "you remind me remarkably of someone I used to know. Worked up at the hall, oh, twenty-five years ago now."
Alaric's blood went cold. "Oh?"
"Yes, correspondence secretary to the old duke. Montrose, his name was. Any relation?"
Montrose. His family name. Of course the vicar would remember—his father's secretary had been named James Montrose, a distant cousin who'd handled all the duke's correspondence.
"No relation that I know of," Alaric lied carefully.
"Remarkable resemblance though. Same bearing, same way of speaking. You could be his son."
"Coincidence, I'm sure."
"Hmm." The vicar didn't look convinced. "He had a son, you know. Brought him to the church once when he was visiting. Serious little boy, very proper. Would be about your age now."
Marianne was watching this exchange with increasing interest, and Alaric could practically see her putting pieces together in her mind.
"How interesting," she said carefully. "And this James Montrose, he worked closely with the old duke?"
"Oh yes, very closely. Handled all his personal correspondence, traveled with him frequently. The duke trusted him completely. Used to jest that Montrose knew more about running the estate than he did."
"And what happened to him?" Marianne asked, still watching Alaric.
"Died, sadly. Years ago, I think. Heart trouble. The duke was devastated, I heard. Even came to the funeral, which was unusual. The old duke didn't usually concern himself with staff."
"But he came for Montrose?"
"Oh yes. Brought his son too—the current duke. Though he was young then, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Very serious young man. Looked rather like Montrose, actually. Same dark hair, same austere expression."
"How interesting," Marianne said, and her tone suggested she found it more than interesting. "Mr. Fletcher, you must have known about this Montrose, working for the duke as you do."
"The name's familiar," Alaric said carefully. "There are employment records, of course."
"Of course. Records. You do like your records."
Before the interrogation could continue, Thomas burst in. "Mrs. Whitby! Mr. Fletcher! Crisis! The geese are in the pie tent!"
"Again?" Marianne sighed.
"They're organized this time. Admiral Feathers stationed guards at the entrance while the others raid. It's a military operation!"
"Of course it is." Marianne was already moving. "Mr. Fletcher, we need your help. Unless you're still recovering from your near-death experience?"
"I think I can manage goose warfare."
"Good, because this is going to require strategy. And possibly a net."
They rushed out to find the fair in full swing despite the goose invasion.
Stalls lined the square, selling everything from wooden toys to knitted scarves to questionable-looking Christmas puddings.
Children ran about with ribbons and bells, adults clustered around braziers for warmth, and somewhere a band was playing carols with more enthusiasm than skill.
The pie tent was indeed under siege. Admiral Feathers had positioned his lieutenants at strategic points while the foot soldiers systematically demolished the competition entries. One goose had its head buried in what looked like Mrs. Ironwell's prized apple pie.
"This is sabotage!" Mrs. Ironwell cried. "They know I'm favored to win!"
"Geese don't understand pie competitions," Marianne said patiently.
"These geese do! Look at them! They're targeting the best pies!"
She had a point. The geese did seem to be showing remarkable discrimination in their destruction, focusing on the more elaborate entries while leaving the simpler ones alone.
"We need to flank them," Alaric said, studying the situation. "Thomas, you and the other children create a distraction at the front. Marianne and I will come in from behind with the net."
"You're enjoying this," Marianne accused as they circled around the tent.
"I'm applying strategic thinking to a practical problem."
"You're playing soldier with geese."
"Very intelligent geese, apparently."
"That doesn't make it less ridiculous."
"No, but it does make it more interesting."
They crept behind the tent, where Marianne had procured a large fishing net from somewhere. Admiral Feathers was focused on directing his troops, his back to them.
"On three," Alaric whispered. "One... two..."
"Wait," Marianne said suddenly. "Is that Lord Dupont?"
Alaric followed the line of Marianne’s pointing finger, and in that instant his stomach dropped.
Lord Dupont was impossible to miss—draped in his infamous purple coat that gleamed like a royal banner against the snow, cutting through the bustle of the square like a man born to interrupt delicate moments.
Worse, he was coming straight toward them with the determined gait of someone who had recognized something, or someone, very important.
“Marianne,” Alaric said sharply, his pulse beginning to roar in his ears. “We need to go.”
She blinked at him, still clutching the net. “Go? Now?”
“We need to go now,” he repeated, his tone low and urgent, the sort that made people obey without quite knowing why.
But she didn’t move. And Dupont had already spotted them.
“I say!” came the unmistakable booming call that could have carried across a battlefield. “Is that...oh, Heavens, it is!”
Alaric felt the blood drain from his face.
Beside him, Marianne turned, startled. “Mr. Fletcher, why is that man looking at you as though you’ve just risen from the dead?”
“I have no idea,” Alaric said, already scanning for escape routes, though there were none. The crowd was too thick, the square too open. “We should,...focus on the geese.”
“Your Grace!” Lord Dupont bellowed, delight and recognition exploding in his voice. “What on earth are you doing here?”
The two words struck like thunder.
The sound rolled through the square, flattening conversation, laughter, and the distant music of the fair. The hammering stopped, a bell missed its chime, and even the geese paused to stare.
Marianne froze.
Her face turned toward him, searching his features with growing horror. “Your Grace?” she whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it less absurd.
“Marianne,” Alaric began, panic clawing up his throat. “I can explain...”
“Your Grace?” she said again, louder now, incredulous. “As in...Duke? Your Grace as in the Duke of Wexmere?”
“It’s not...”
But her expression shifted mid-sentence, and he saw it happen—the slow, terrible aligning of every truth he’d tried to bury.
The fine education, the effortless authority, the uncalloused hands, the way he moved through rooms as though he owned them.
Of course she was clever enough to fit it all together.
“You’re the Duke of Wexmere,” she said flatly. It wasn’t a question; it was a verdict.
“Marianne, please...”
“You’ve been lying,” she cut in, her voice trembling between disbelief and fury. “Lying to me, to everyone, all this time.”
“I haven’t...I mean, yes, technically, but...”
“Technically?” she echoed, the word cracking like a whip. “You’ve been pretending to be your own steward while we’ve been...while I’ve been...”
She stopped, apparently unable to articulate exactly what they'd been doing. Which was probably for the best, given their audience. Alaric realized he had just destroyed the only honest thing he’d ever had.
Lord Dupont had reached them now, beaming with oblivious delight.
"Wexmere! What a surprise! When your man said you were reviewing the estate, I assumed from London.
I never imagined you'd actually come here yourself!
Your mother would be so pleased. She always said you should spend Christmas here. "
"Dupont," Alaric said desperately, "perhaps we could discuss this..."